


Match

by Lacemaze (Needle_Bones)



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Camerashipping, M/M, Pacific Rim AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 23:53:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10524561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Needle_Bones/pseuds/Lacemaze
Summary: Drift Compatibility is an interesting thing. Sometimes it exists between two very unlikely people.





	

The air was heavy in the Shatterdome that day.

“I've set up a few candidates for you,” Waylon said, trying to sound professional as he walked along beside the returning pilot. “They match you well in strength, speed, reaction time, fighting style - ”

“On paper.” Miles turned to face him, walking backward a few steps. “They match me well on paper.”

“Well... yes. Your stats are all I have to go on.”

Miles made a quiet humming sound in his throat before turning and taking the steps down to the arena floor two at a time. Waylon found himself hugging his clipboard to his chest as he stopped at the top of the stairs. He'd met Miles about two days before and in that time they'd said all of 100 words to each other, tops. It made sense, in a way. Miles had never been much of a talker if what Mr. Blaire said was true, and it had only gotten worse after... that incident.

Hydra Sakura hadn't been designed to take the kind of punishment Miles and Richard had put it through. If they'd been a second or two later...

Waylon tightened his grip on the metal clipboard when he caught sight of Miles' hands. The left ring and right trigger finger were missing, the only readily visible scars left over from that day. If he understood the report correctly, that hadn't been the worst of the man's injuries. Of course, any pilot who could survive the shock of the full neural load being kicked to them after a co-pilot's death... well, they weren't someone Waylon cared to tangle with.

“Attention,” he called, grateful his voice didn't shake. “You've all been brought in today for the chance at becoming this man's co-pilot - ” and here he gestured to Miles, who was busy twirling a wooden staff around in front of him, “- in Echo Sentinel. First to four is declared the winner.”

Waylon had expected the process to take the better part of the day. The first match was over in under two minutes. Set up, staff to shoulder, strike, block, sweep, one. Set, block, strike, two. Set, twist, sweep, three. Block, block, strike, done.

“4 to 0,” Waylon said, marking it down. “Next up.”

The next match played out pretty much the same. “4 to 1.”

And so it went until eventually a solid cracking sound and a sharp yelp pulled Waylon's attention back to the floor from the hurried marks that littered the bottom half of the paper. Over half of the line-up was gone by then and the latest volunteer was lying flat on her back, clutching her arm across her chest. Miles held a hand out to her but dropped it when she waved him off, her lip twisted into a snarl that was either pain or anger.

Waylon sighed through his teeth. “4 to 2.”

“Looks like your calculations were a little off, Park,” Miles said, swinging the staff across his shoulders and hanging his arms on it.

The technician swallowed the comment that scrabbled at his throat. It dug its claws in on the way down, and he spat up blood. “Maybe if you'd stop trying to kill your sparring partners, we'd have gotten somewhere. Or at least stop doing it so ineffectively.”

Miles paused, just looking at him for a long moment. “Jeremy,” he said, looking over Waylon's shoulder to the man behind the mission. “Let Mr. Park step in for a round or two.”

“Not happening, Upshur. You have plenty of qualified candidates to decide from.”

Miles made a sound caught somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “Have you seen these kids? Come on, Blaire. Every time he marks something down he does this little -” a loose gesture of his arm, rolling his wrist, “- like he knows exactly how to get around whatever I just did. But, hey, if you don't think he can handle it...”

Waylon had never known Blaire to put up with much from anyone, so it took him a moment to process what was happening when the man took the clipboard from him.

“Go,” was all he had to say and Waylon was out of his coat and down the stairs, setting his shoes at the edge of the mat.

It wasn't like he'd been desperate to climb into one of those machines, but suffice it to say that there were reasons he was at the Shatterdome in the first place. None of them were good.

“It's a dialogue, not a fight,” Miles reminded him as they passed each other at the center of the ring. “But that doesn't mean 'hold back'.”

Waylon fought down a smile. “I wouldn't worry about that.”

It had been a while since Waylon had gotten himself into a ring, however, and Miles was quicker than he'd calculated for. He doubted the flinch was noticeable when the staff stopped about an inch from his forehead but somehow that didn't make him feel much better.

“1 to 0”, Miles informed him with that infuriating smirk.

Something small snapped in the technician's chest, old training coming back into focus, and Waylon tightened his hands on the staff. The world blurred at the edges, the seconds punctuated by the sharp _crack_ that always accompanied solid strikes and blocks. There was a chaotic rhythm to it all – the hard snap of each hit sending vibrations up his arms, the scrape of old clothing and bare skin against the mat when someone fell or dodged. Miles' right leg finally buckled under him, dropping him to the floor with a small grunt and Waylon swept the staff up to the side of the man's throat, stopping just half an inch from heated skin.

“1-1”, he said, breathing just a little too fast.

He saw something click behind the pilot's eyes, but it was gone before he could place it. Miles stood slowly, staff held to his side. Waylon knew better than to relax. The strike came from just where he'd expected it to and in just the way he'd been braced for – a hard spin, aiming for the head.

He had not, however, been expecting the equally hard sweep to his legs immediately after.

“2-1”.

Waylon watched Miles push himself back to a standing position from his new place sprawled flat on his back. If anything highlighted the difference between a 27-year-old active pilot and an overworked technician of 34, it was this. If it had just been a sparring match, Waylon would have let it go. But it wasn't just a sparring match and that was what made him pick up the staff again, rolling to put himself back on his feet.

Miles stopped near the center of the ring, raising an eyebrow at him. Waylon, for his part, tipped his head to the side in what amounted to a 'come on' gesture. Miles apparently took it for what it was because he dropped his skeptical look and flashed a crooked smile.

If there was one thing Waylon was good at, it was patterns. Fortunately for him, Miles functioned on a lot of them. But predicting something in theory and reacting to it in practice were two completely different things, and Waylon nearly ended up on the ground again (twice) before he managed to find the opening he was looking for.

Miles had a habit of swinging too wide when he felt he had the advantage. Waylon caught his arm the next time he did, wrenching it back and dropping them both to the mat. He put his hands down hard on the pilot's wrists and waited for the space of a few heartbeats while Miles looked up at him, surprised and faintly breathless. Waylon could have kissed him, if he'd been braver. Instead, he simply grinned down at him. He didn't need to say it.

“All right!” Jeremy Blaire called from the platform, breaking the spell. “I've seen enough.”

Miles was quick to stand as soon as Waylon let go of him. “Me too,” he said. Then, with a casual toss of his head. “He's my co-pilot.”


End file.
